Shakedown Shenanigans
by StarSword-C
Summary: Written for Unofficial Literary Challenge #4: "The Return of the Revenge of the Unofficial LC of DOOOOOMMMMMM!" on the Star Trek Online forums. A newly promoted Captain Kanril Eleya arrives at 40 Eridani A Starfleet Construction Yards to assume command of the USS Bajor. Paperwork, snipe hunts, and a bit of violence ensue.


**Shakedown Shenanigans**

_"To succeed, planning alone is insufficient. One must improvise as well."_  
>— Isaac Asimov, <em>Foundation<em>, from the USS _Bajor_'s dedication plaque

It's dark and smoky in the Jefferies tube and my eyes burn from the smoke of plastic and insulation. Just gotta keep climbing, down, down, down, and there's the hatch. I kick it loose and swing through into an equally smoky corridor; PFC. Davos quickly follows behind me.

The conference room across the corridor is on fire, but that's beside the point for now. Davos and I advance room to room, doorway to doorway. I spot a bald green head poke out into the hall two doors up. Without conscious thought the phaser rifle in my hands hums with power and a golden lance leaps from the emitter and sprays the wall behind with half the Orion's face.

Davos moves ahead, I level my rifle to cover him as he goes for the door of sickbay, and then he grunts and falls backwards, the ornate brass hilt of a knife sticking from under his left collarbone. A barely dressed female greenskin emerges from the doorway and my shot splashes off a personal shield. She whirls and throws something at me; I jerk sideways into the wall. There's a muffled thrum from somewhere above me as the _Kira_'s spinal phaser finally fires, and the greenskin charges me, having pulled two more knives from I'm-not-sure-I-want-to-know-where.

Too close to fire. I swing my rifle as a quarterstaff at her chin; she parries with a forearm and slashes at my face with a knife, then backsteps. I grit my teeth at the sudden pain on my cheek and try to bring the rifle to bear but she slashes across my front and swings a roundhouse kick and the phaser, sling cut, goes flying from my hands.

Okay, basic training, combat drill from Gunny Elwar. I drop into Sau'vikta Three as she moves in. I jab at her midsection and she slaps the arm wide and I kick right at her kneecap. She traps the leg and punches with a knife-wielding left hand. I catch that wrist and the ghost of something—fear? Surprise?—flashes across her face. I knee her in the stomach and grab at the metal bikini and headbutt her face and _PAIN, SCREAMING BURNING AGONY OH PROPHETS HELP ME_

I crumple to my knees, her other knife buried to the hilt in the right side of my abdomen with fiery agony spreading like wildfire. Above me the matron shakes her head as if to clear it and glares at me and—

"Damn it, Captain, shut up!"

That's when I really wake up. No fire, no smoke, no pain, no greenskin, just a decently appointed business-class room on a starliner.

Then the sour taste of bile fills my mouth and I barely make it to the toilet in time.

As I sit there in a heap, leaning over yesterday's dinner, I feel someone come up behind me. "That old nightmare again, Eleya?" Tess asks in a concerned tone, rubbing my back.

I slowly stand and walk over to our room's sink and pick up my toothbrush. "It's worse when I'm stressed." I hurriedly scrub the hell out of my teeth.

"Not like we're going into combat today, El," she comments, heading over to our suitcases. "Time to get up, anyway. I'll, uh, find you some underwear." A sports bra and panties land next to me a moment later.

"Bynam and Biri are meeting us there, right?" I triple-check as I step into the panties and pull them up.

"Yes, and so's T'Var, and so are most of the people who got off the _Hammond_. Just like the last five times you asked."

"You were counting?" I yank the bra down and adjust it. My heartrate's finally starting to go down. "You want to order room service or go down to the galley?"

She opens her mouth to answer but the P.A. chirps instead. "Attention all passengers, this is Captain Savak with an update on arrival. The time is stardate 86644.03, 0745 hours, 7 August 2409 Earth Standard, 1737 hours, 9 Ailat 147375 Vulcan Standard. We are one hour and fifteen minutes ahead of schedule and will be arriving in orbit of Vulcan in seventy-five minutes. Your designated pickups, if any, have been notified. The galley and stores will remain open during debarkation but please be aware of your scheduled exit time and connections, if any, and have your identification and customs papers ready. Thank you for flying Starbound."

I pull on an undershirt and trousers and zip up my red-and-white CO's uniform jacket. I glance over at Tess, who's putting the finishing touches on her makeup, and as usual notice that she's left her red-and-black jacket unzipped far enough to show off a noticeable amount of cleavage. Showoff. I shake my head and send a preorder to the galley for our breakfasts.

We disembark over two hours later and head for customs, an envelope with a sheet of archival plastic snugly under my arm. A uniformed Vulcan Defense Force officer sits behind the counter and orders us, "Place your hands on the palm scanners and state your name and occupation for the record."

"Kanril Eleya, Captain, Federation Starfleet."

"Tesjha Phohl, Commander, Federation Starfleet."

He leans forward and taps something on his console. "There is a discrepancy. Your biometric identification lists you as 'Siritesjha sh'Phohlhi'. Please explain."

"'Siritesjha' is my Imperial name. 'Tesjha' is my birth name." The customs officer stares at her, carefully expressionless. She lets out a frustrated breath and explains, "You've heard of Thy'lek Shran? Pre-Federation history? In Imperial Andorii his name is Hravishran th'Zoarhi."

"Which is your legal name?"

"They're _both_ legal names. You've seriously never dealt with an Andorian before?"

"Shall I get Security?"

"Yeah, and I'll tell them the same—"

"Look, Officer," I interrupt, "Andorians use multiple names depending on which of their cultures they're dealing with. Tess uses one name with her family and friends in the Adris Islands, or with me, and a different one with the Imperial government. Just use 'Siritesjha' since you've already got it on the paperwork. Sound logical?"

"Very well. Purpose of your visit?"

"Business," I answer. "I'm meeting my ship. Tess is my first officer."

"Do you have anything to declare?"

"Yes, uh, one case of Indali Vineyards 2406 _kaptera_, three cases of Klatha Reserve 2405." He gives me the same neutral look he gave Tess. "It's springwine. Bajoran alcoholic beverage? Made from kava juice? Whatever, I've got the import paperwork here." I pass a data solid through the window to him.

"Import fee?"

"Starfleet's footing the bill; it's all there."

"You are aware that many Vulcan cities prohibit the consumption of alcohol?"

"Don't worry, my feet aren't even touching the ground this trip. I'm going straight to the Starfleet yard, and we're shipping out to Archanis sector end of next week."

"Very well. I hope your visit to Vulcan is productive." His expression doesn't change but I can hear the tinge of boredom in his voice. "You may go."

As we go out the door Tess mutters, "Damn pointy-ear's probably jealous we're headed for the front lines."

"Vulcans don't get jealous, Tess."

"Pfft. Oh, yes, they do. Don't ask me how I know, though."

Outside customs I hear a squeal and fifty-nine kilos of copper-skinned Trill collide with me. "Oof. Hey, Biri."

"Great to see you, El!"

"It has only been a month," a carefully controlled voice remarks. I look up and T'Var meets my eyes; I catch a glint of amusement in those coffee-colored orbs. "Nevertheless, it is good to see you, Captain."

"Likewise, T'Var. So, uh, what's the plan?"

"The shipyard commandant, Rear Admiral Taurik, will be meeting us at the yard," my mutton-chopped Andorian chief engineer, Bynam Ehrob, answers. "He sent a shuttle to pick us up. We've got about 250 of 1,050 crew out here already and—"

"Captain Kan-rile?" a voice asks.

I turn to a Bolian warrant officer with pilots' wings sewn onto the shoulder of her uniform jacket. "It's pronounced 'Kan-rill'," I correct her.

"Sorry, sir."

"'Ma'am'," Biri corrects him before I can open my mouth.

"Sorry, ma'am."

"No, I'm a 'sir', she's a 'ma'am'."

The Bolian stands there looking stupid for a minute. "Moving on. I'm Warrant Officer Arerdwa Thele. The admiral sent me to collect you and your command staff."

"Well, we're still waiting on the CMO and security chief."

Thele consults a datapad. "According to this Lieutenants Wirrpanda and Korekh are scheduled to arrive on the next transport from Starbase 621 in eight hours. Your suitcases have been transferred to my shuttle. If you'll follow me, please."

He leads us down two decks and through several corridors to a shuttlebay where a big Type-7 passenger shuttle with the name _Al-Birjandi_ emblazoned on the hull sits waiting. We board and buckle in.

T'Var sits beside me. "I thought you should know, Captain, that I am scheduled for the promotion exam in one month. If I pass I may not be with you for very much longer."

"You finished those command school classes?" I ask her, pleased.

"Yes, ma'am. In fact Captain Justine Haas said she enjoyed my solution to the command test."

"Congratulations. Well, if they give you a ship I'll be sorry to see you go, but I think you'll make a good CO."

"Thank you, ma'am."

A short warp 3 hop and the second-busiest shipyard in the Federation appears on the viewscreen. If I remember my history correctly, the 40 Eridani A Starfleet Construction Yard was built on the site of an old Vulcan shipyard that was destroyed by a Romulan deep-strike during the Earth-Romulan War. It's smaller but a lot more organized-looking than Utopia Planitia or the Okana Shipyard back home. A single central core, tapered at either end, stands five kilometers tall, with six decks of petals fanning out eight klicks in any direction. It'll handle any ship in the Starfleet catalog and most that aren't.

Our pilot swings us past a battered relic of an _Excelsior_-class on the second deck from the top, swarmed by Sphinx workpods and hard-suited workers cutting blasted hull plates free. Ship's been shot to hell by somebody. Greenskins or Gorn would be my guess—the damage doesn't look explosive enough for Klingons.

"Ma'am," Thele says through the intercom, "you might want to come up front for this." I unbuckle and work my way to the cockpit as we close with the central core. Then Thele banks right and pitches the shuttle forward and I grab at the overhead handle. Feels like he's got the inertial dampeners set low up here. Smart, lets you feel the ship.

Then my jaw drops. The huge elliptical saucer of a starship, half a kilometer wide, resplendent in a fresh coat of pale grey, lies below and in front of us, lit from within by its windows and from without by floodlights. In huge block letters across the saucer, two words: U.S.S. _Bajor_. Below that, the registry, NCC-97238.

A _Galaxy_-class starship.

_My_ ship.

I'm in love.

* * *

><p>A light-skinned Vulcan male with two admiral's pips on his chest meets us in the secondary shuttlebay. "Kanril Eleya? I am Rear Admiral Taurik."<p>

I snap to attention. "Sir. Yes sir." I take the envelope from under my arm and hand it to him with a formal flourish, intoning, "Pursuant to Starfleet Bureau of Personnel, Staffing Order Number 2409-Charlie-44332174-Alpha, I, Kanril Eleya, hereby assume command of United Federation of Planets Starship _Bajor_, Naval Construction Contract 97238."

"Thank you. Pursuant to orders I hereby relinquish command of this vessel to you. At ease, _Captain_ Kanril Eleya."

Glad we got that out of the way. I hate formalities. "Sir, some of my command crew. Commander Tess Phohl, my XO and tactical officer, Lieutenant Commander Birail Riyannis, my science officer, my ops officer Lieutenant T'Var, and my chief engineer Lieutenant Commander Bynam Ehrob."

"Sir," the others say in acknowledgement. He nods. "I will have somebody deliver your luggage to your quarters. This way, please."

Biri and Bynam peel off early to visit their sections but Tess and T'Var quietly follow on our heels. "You are familiar with the differences between the _Bajor_ and earlier vessels of type?" Taurik asks during a turbolift ride.

"Increased endurance, firepower and speed, quantum-reinforced superstructure, a meter of ablative armor and the toughest shields this side of a starbase," Tess rattles off from memory. "She's half-explorer, half-battleship, sir, to replenish losses against the Klingons."

"Yes, until the _Odyssey_-class enters full production next year. After the _Bajor_ and her sisters there will be no more _Galaxy_-class starships." The turbolift slides open and we emerge on the bridge. Shipyard workers in a riotous mix of coveralls and service uniforms wander back and forth, working on the computers and putting the finishing touches on the computers. The whole place stinks slightly of industrial chemicals. I look at Taurik and catch a wistful look in his eyes. I've learned to look at the eyes with T'Var. "It is the end of an era, Captain Kanril."

"Hmm?"

"On my first tour out of Starfleet Academy I was assigned to the _Enterprise_-D. I was present at the beginning, and I am now here at the end. Twenty-eight ships and then no more." He points at a speck of light on the viewscreen. "We call it the _Planet_-class. Because each ship is named after a Federation homeworld, you see. Vulcan, Trill, Cait, Andoria, Earth, Coridan—"

"Bajor."

"As you say, Captain. And each will receive from ten to fifteen percent of its initial complement from its namesake world, practicality permitting."

"How many Bajorans are we getting, sir?" Tess asks.

"One hundred fifty-seven. Not including yourself, Captain." I whistle. It'll be the most Bajorans I've served with since I left the Militia. "Your ready room is this way."

My combadge chirps as we enter. "Kanril."

"Captain, Engineering," Bynam's voice returns. "What the frak's up with this reactor? Doesn't match the specs I was given. Not reading any dilithium either."

I look to the admiral. "It is a Vector Industries X-227, Commander."

There's a pause. "A testbed design? You've gotta be kidding me."

"The design passed all trials and simulations, Commander; it is safe. It uses gravity fields to confine the reaction instead of dilithium. The core ejection systems have also been redesigned. You seem to have been given incorrect specifications."

"Looks like."

"Admiral," I ask uncomfortably, "is that thing on all the Series 23 ships or just the _Bajor_?"

"Neither." I give him a look and wait for him to finish the sentence. "The _Trill_, _Coridan_, _Benzar_, and _Zakdorn_ also have one, the rest use a standard core. Commander Ehrob, I will see to it you are provided the correct documentation."

"No need, it's in the computer. CHENG out."

"Any other surprises for me, Admiral?"

"You are aware the ship carries quantum torpedoes instead of photons?" I nod. That's been common on the _Galaxy_-class since the late eighties. "Then, no."

I sit down at my desk. Nice, comfortable chair. I look around. The ready room's bigger than I had on the _George Hammond_.

"Have you ever served aboard a _Galaxy_-class, Captain?" Taurik asks.

I shake my head. "Last heavy capital I was on was a _Regent_-class, USS _Betazed_."

"I remember her. She came from this yard as well. We have some paperwork to look over."

Paperwork. Of course. I grab a PADD and start on the forms.

An hour later we're still working. "I see ten quantum torpedoes on this inventory. We're supposed to have 180 in the magazine. Thoughts?"

"There was a delay at the factory. They will not be delivered until—"

"Until when? Tuesday? Wrong answer. You are going to find me a full load of torpedoes by the launch ceremony or I am not leaving dock. End of discussion."

"You are out of line, Captain," Taurik chides me.

"Am I? Would _you_ like to explain another _Enterprise_-B fiasco to Starfleet Command? Over 350 people _died_ because the San Fran yard dragged its feet on the final touches."

"That was a series of freak coincidences. The odds of all the required conditions—"

"Let me explain the Prophets' sense of humor to you, sir," I tell him in a sardonic tone. "The higher anyone says the odds are _against_ something happening, the greater the likelihood it is _going_ to happen."

He stares at me. After a moment: "That is most illogical, Captain."

"Illogical, but true," T'Var says from his right without looking up from her PADD. Tess hastily turns a bark of laughter into a hacking cough.

Taurik purses his lips. "I will see what I can do to expedite delivery."

"Thank you, sir. Now, about the launch ceremony…"

Crew keep arriving throughout the day, and the paperwork piles up faster than I can get rid of it. Next day is much the same but I get a bit of a break at midday to meet the last two members of my senior staff. Due to the outcome of the court-martial over the _Hammond_'s destruction, I got a fair amount of leeway with recruitment, but I can't handpick everybody on a thousand-man crew and Lieutenant al-Qahtani and Doctor Tretca declined to come with me. I'll miss them but Tretca got a teaching job at the Academy, offer she couldn't refuse and so forth, and Ruqayya is headed for Deep Space K-7 to be chief of security, so we'll probably see each other again soon enough.

I'm waiting in the shuttlebay as the _Bopp_ returns from Vulcan with my new CMO and security chief. The Type-8's door slides open and a shortish black man with a slightly pudgy face, a bushy mustache, and deep-set, beady eyes steps down the ramp. He stops in front of me and comes to attention. One black pip, one gold pip, a lieutenant junior grade. "G'day, Cap'n. Doctor Warragul William Wirrpanda, M.D."

"At ease. I'm Kanril Eleya. If you don't mind my asking, that an Australian accent?"

"Well, I'm from Sagara IV. Fleaspeck colony in Delta Volanis. But we're about fifty-fifty Australian and Japanese. Mum's from Murray Bridge and Dad's from Perth."

I hear a heavy tread on the ramp, look up, and—whoa. I have no idea what species this guy is, but he's huge, twice my width and easily a head taller, built like a Cardassian main battle tank I rode in once at boot camp. Scaly bronze skin, slit pupils, back-swept horns, talons, he seems tailor-made to be intimidating. And that is emphatically _not_ a standard Starfleet uniform. He approaches, sets down the instrument case he's carrying, and sort of half-bows to me, pressing a forearm to his chest. "Greetings, Eleya, Clan Kanril. I am Dul'krah, Clan Korekh."

"Um. Well, that answers who you are. _What_ are you?"

He seems slightly confused. "I am Clan Korekh. Blood-Clan Rustra?" He says it as if it should be self-explanatory.

"He's a Pe'khdar, Cap'n," the doctor explains. "They don't really have a word for themselves as a race; they're only loyal to their clans."

"Then where do we get 'Pe'khdar' from?"

"That is what the Ferengi call us. In our tongue it means 'the last Clans'. It suffices."

I guess that's simple enough, but clearly I've got some research to do. "Should I call you Dul'krah?"

"If you do, I will answer. I will also answer to 'Lieutenant Korekh', as it is the closest thing I have to what you would consider a surname."

"And I'd prefer to be called 'Warragul' if you're one of those captains who likes to be on a first-name basis with your crew."

"I generally do, with my command staff. Uh, this way. Tell me a little more about yourselves."

Warragul starts off. "I was Class of '04 at the academy, did my residency at Starbase 324, then I was chief of surgery on the _Alphecca_."

"This is your first time as CMO?"

"Yes, sir."

"Ma'am," I automatically say for the umpteenth time this week.

"Sorry."

"I get that a lot, don't worry. But I was an NCO before I was an officer and I'm uncomfortable being called 'sir'; I don't care what Starfleet protocol says about it. What's your specialty?"

"Trauma surgery, ma'am."

That's good. Emergency medicine is probably the single most necessary specialty where we're going. "What about you, Dul'krah?"

"I am Ver Eshalakh. My people's military police clan. I attended Starfleet Academy after we joined the Federation. My last post was chief of security on the USS _Exeter_."

My combadge chirps. "Captain, Bynam. Could you join me on deck 11 please? We're about to test-fire the impulse engines."

"All right, I'll be there in a minute. Can you two—"

"We'll find our way," Warragul assures me.

I reach the local control room for the saucer starboard engine and the slim, mutton-chopped Andorian waves me in. "All right, Kerensky, fire it up!"

A tanned human with lieutenant's pips hammers a series of commands into his console and a Bajoran chief petty officer studies the readouts. "Fuel transfer system online. Compressing deuterium. Fuel slugs transferring to reactor chamber. Ignition in five, four, three, two, one, mark!"

There's a low thrum and the floor begins to vibrate. Suddenly, I hear high-pitched squeal, fluctuating up and down. "Bynam, is that supposed to happen?!" I yell to be heard over the noise.

But the _chaan_ is smiling, like my father used to when he was proud of my sister or me. "We snipes call it the 'baby's cry', Captain. Just means it's a new engine." He walks over, checks an indicator, and lovingly strokes the bulkhead. "It'll go away by the end of the shakedown cruise. All right, Kerensky, shut her down."

Then a Bolian E-2 in engineer yellow comes running in, pops an access panel and starts yelling at it. Then he stops, and then starts yelling again, louder. The third time, I finally bark, "Crewman! Front and center!" He stops, looks in my direction, and his eyes widen and he dashes over to me and comes smartly to attention. "Who are you?"

"Ma'am! Crewman Apprentice Miq'doh Drohhl, ma'am!"

"And what the _phekk_ were you just doing?"

"Echo check, ma'am!"

Bynam splutters and he, Kerensky and the CPO burst out laughing. I let them go on like that for a few seconds before asking, "Explanation, please?"

"Sorry, it's a, ahem, prank, Captain. Somebody, erm, told him to check if the engine was working by yelling. Supposedly if you hit the right frequency it resonates," and he starts laughing again.

"Drohhl, get back to work," I order, shaking my head in mild annoyance. I may run a loose ship, but this is ridiculous.

"Oh, come on, Captain," Bynam says as we walk out. "You never did anything like that when you were in the Militia?"

"No, but I once had Corporal Hoolud try to get me to, quote, 'blow the DCA'. They had some trouble finding his front teeth after the next sparring session."

* * *

><p>I run last checks but I'm too jazzed to sleep that night. I finally bribe Warragul for a mild sedative so I can get five hours' uninterrupted rack time before the big day dawns.<p>

0700 ship's time. I replicate an egg hasperat and a cappucino and wolf them down before pulling on my dress uniform and wasting ten minutes fighting the stupid necktie. I finally get to the bridge at 0740 and can relax.

The rest of the brass finally deign to show up. I greet Admiral Quinn at the bridge door, happy that the old Trill took some time off to make a personal appearance. "Wouldn't miss it, Captain." He turns to Taurik. "I take it your wife is out there to break the bottle?"

"Yes, and, Captain, she found your choice of Bajoran springwine somewhat illogical."

I roll my eyes. "It's more logical than using French champagne, sir. Bajoran captain, Bajoran crew, ship's named _Bajor_—you follow the progression here? Only reason they use Dom Perignon is because some admiral a hundred fifty years ago was blowing the CFO." Vice Admiral Harnett glares at me but a petty officer to my right starts giggling.

"You know, you might set a new precedent where every captain picks his own native bottle of booze," Quinn comments.

"Good! This is supposed to be the United Federation of Planets, as in _multiple_ planets, not just Earth. I stand by my decision, Admirals."

0800, finally. The viewscreen shows vid from the _Al-Birjandi_ as it takes one of the bottles of Indali Vineyards I brought from home in its tractor beam and hurls it towards the top of the saucer, aiming forward of the bridge. I hear Taurik's wife L'Del over an audio channel: "In the name of the United Federation of Planets, I christen thee USS _Bajor_."

The bottle shatters against the hull and the springwine flash-boils in the vacuum. The bridge erupts in applause. "All right!" I bark. "Everyone to your stations! Sooner we get this shakedown run out of the way, sooner we can get back to our real jobs! Conn! Who's on conn?"

"I am, sir," a black-haired human with a thin mustache says.

"Ma'am or Captain," I boredly correct him as I take a seat in The Chair. "What's your name?"

"Park, sir. Ma'am. JG Park Jin-Soo."

"Fine, Park Jin-Soo. Let's get this show on the road. Begin launch sequence."

"Conn aye." He pulls something on a chain out from under his shirt and kisses it, then stuffs it back down and reaches for the controls. "Warp core and impulse power online. Detaching all umbilicals and docking clamps." There's a thump through the hull beneath my feet, the transfer tunnel attached at the main shuttlebay separating. "We are detached."

"Port and starboard thrusters at station-keeping. Aft thrusters, ahead 20 KPH."

"Side jets, station keeping. Ahead 20 klicks," he confirms. There's a rumble through the hull as the replicator-fueled reaction rockets give the ship a kick, and slowly four-and-a-half million tons of starship and crew lurch forward out of the drydock.

"Come to port, two-five-zero."

"Conn, aye, port two-five-zero."

"Impulse, ahead one-quarter."

"Ahead one-quarter, aye."

As the ship floats clear of the shipyard, I ask Park, "What was that? The thing you kissed a minute ago?"

He turns in his chair and pulls a medallion out of his shirt. "Saint Joseph of Cupertino, ma'am. Belonged to my mother—she flew the _Venture_ for Pat Stanley during the Dominion War."

"You're a Catholic?"

"Among other things, ma'am. That a problem?"

I snort. "I'm Bajoran, Park. I think we've got the market cornered on 'religious people in a secular society'. Let's get to the flight test range."

"Aye ma'am. Setting course."

We cruise out to the Oort Cloud with a short warp hop and are about to enter a particularly dense debris field when the communications officer, a Bajoran from Wyntara Mas Province, announces, "Captain, I've got a distress signal here. SS _Azura_, Bolarus IX registration, under attack by Orion pirates."

Greenskins. My face twists into a snarl as I turn in my chair to face Admiral Taurik. "Tell me you got me those quantum torpedoes." He nods, then I see his eyes widen as recognition of what I'm doing dawns.

Quinn voices it. "Captain, you're not thinking—"

"You're damn right I am."

"We're hardly the only ship in range."

"Yeah, but I've been alternately stressed out and bored out of my skull for five days straight, Admiral. Comms, tag us responding."

"Kanril, are you crazy?" Harnett cries.

"Call it a live-fire exercise for all I care!" I hit the intercom key. "All hands! Battle stations! Bridge to Engineering, I need everything you can get me out of the warp drive."

"All right, uh, I can't push it to redline until I know the ship better, but I can get you ten minutes at warp 9.98."

I look to Park. "More than enough, ma'am."

"Captain," Taurik pleads, "you are not fueled for this."

"Yeah, we are. I bribed your fueling manager with one of the cases of Klatha Reserve I brought aboard." His mouth opens to respond, then snaps shut. "Park, lay in a course. Warp 9.98, engage!"

As the _Bajor_ whirls and streaks past the light barrier, Admiral Harnett complains, "You _are_ crazy. That's going in my report to Starfleet Command."

"Permission to speak frankly, sir?"

"You've been doing that for some time."

"You're from Starfleet Science. Nobel Prize for Physics in 2392? Thirty peer-reviewed papers?"

"Thirty-two."

"Congratulations. Have you ever fired your service weapon outside the range?" He looks at me and I know the answer is no. "I'm not a scientist, Admiral, and I'm not a diplomat, either. I'm a soldier, plain and simple. You point me at a battlefield, I will give you a victory. This is what I do, Admiral." I look back to the plot. "This is what I do."

At this speed it's barely a five-minute flight and we emerge in a debris field on the very fringes of the 40 Eridani C system, asteroids and dust that never formed a planet. Three red dots appear on the plot, flagged as enemy vessels C1 through C3. "The _Azura_'s disabled, Captain," Tess notes.

"Comms, open a channel."

"Channel open."

"Orion vessels, this is Captain Kanril Eleya of the Federation Starship _Bajor_. You are ordered to release control of your helm. Heave to and prepare to be boarded."

The response comes back, "Get fucked, Starfleet!"

"Yeah, you've got that backwards. Master Chief… Wiggin, wasn't it?" The gaunt, brown-haired human at the sensor console nods. "Map their hulls."

I can imagine the reaction of the Orion boss. What I just did is the starship equivalent of a whack to the back of the head, painting them with our active targeting sensors at full power.

Unfortunately it doesn't have the effect I wanted. They turn and burn, heading straight for us. "They're on an attack vector, Captain!"

I press a palm to my face. "Idiots. Shields up! Tess, your turn. Straight at 'em, Mister Park."

"Conn, aye."

"Admirals, hang onto something."

"I have a lock!"

"Fire at will, Tess."

"Firing!" Half a dozen streams of searing light erupt from the upper and lower saucer phaser strips, lancing out at the oncoming corvettes. Three slam into the leader's bow and the board shows an overload in their forward shields; two of the other shots split between the trailing corvettes and the last misses.

"Torpedoes!" I bark. "Full spread!" The forward tube goes into rapid fire and blue-glowing projectiles scream from above the deflector dish across the rapidly closing void between us. A searing white flash erupts and is just as quickly gone; contact C2 vanishes from the plot. "Comms." The communications officer waves me on. "This is the USS _Bajor_. I say again, surrender now. There's no way out of this." The response proves difficult for the universal translator to handle but there's something about my mother. "Yeah, that was the wrong answer."

Sickly green disruptor fire skitters across our forward shields. Tess fires the ventral strip again and hits C1 amidships as it streaks beneath us; there's a secondary explosion and the ship begins trailing smoke and debris. "Conn! Hard about! Biri! Tractor beam! Do _not_ let them get mobile!"

The view on the screen starts to whirl past vertically as Park flips the ship end-for-end, and Biri snares the two corvettes with the primary tractor. But they're spread too far apart: they slow some but they're still escaping. "Tess! Target their engines!"

Their chase batteries fire, but ours is far deadlier. Searing lances of nadions reach out and crash into the rear shields of both ships. The stern arcs quickly collapse and our fire leaves the engines in flames.

"USS _Bajor_! Hold your fire! Hold your fire!"

"That a surrender I hear?"

"We surrender!"

I hit the intercom key. "Dul'krah! I want two security teams and two prize crews assembled. Sealable suits, they're dealing with Orions. And Warragul, get a medical team ready to head over to the _Azura_. All hands, secure ship from battle stations, but remain at yellow alert." I release the key, stand, and walk forward into the open area between the conn and ops stations, resting my hand on T'Var's console. I stroke the arch overhead and whisper, "That's my girl. That's my good girl."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong> As I implied in the story, that's is supposed to be the same Taurik as appeared in TNG: "Lower Decks".

Joseph of Cupertino is a real Catholic saint, the patron of air travelers, pilots, and astronauts. He was apparently known for levitating while praying. Tailor-made to be the patron saint of Starfleet in my opinion. Alternatively, you could use St. Jude, the patron of police and lost causes.

I borrowed the bit about the "baby's cry" from _The Black Fleet Crisis_, one of the earlier _Star Wars_ EU novel series. It's a bit of a mixed bag in quality: Luke's plot is stupid and pointless and Lando's is just weird, but Leia's, Han's, and Chewie's is quite enjoyable if you like geopolitical/military thrillers. It's an awful lot like a Tom Clancy novel back when it was actually Clancy writing them. The snipe hunts mentioned in the same scene were borrowed from real life. I got told about a bunch of them by my dad, a former Navy engineering officer. I think my favorite was sending a noob in a shipyard for "fifty feet of waterline". (A "line" is a rope in seaman parlance, but a "waterline" is where the water comes up to on the side of the ship.)


End file.
